


5 times Betty and Jughead joke about going on a date and 1 time they don’t

by catthecoder



Series: foolish hearts [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends, F/M, FBI Agent Betty Cooper, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Getting to Know Each Other, Opposites Attract, Pre-Relationship, Secrets, Slow Burn, thief Jughead Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 16:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catthecoder/pseuds/catthecoder
Summary: With an occasional phone call thrown into what already is a bubbling mix of feelings, keeping things strictly professional and casual gets only harder. Stomachs fill up with both butterflies and rocks, unspoken words feel heavy on tongues and foolish hearts follow irregular rhythms, skipping beats with every breath. But how far can they push the boundary between their worlds, how much are they willing to risk before it all becomes too much to handle?





	5 times Betty and Jughead joke about going on a date and 1 time they don’t

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! 💕
> 
> I just wanted to thank you for the overwhelmingly positive feedback that you've left underneath the first part, I can't even begin to explain how much it means to me that you love this story. seriously, y'all are awesome.
> 
> I apologise for any mistakes you might spot, the work is un-betad once again. 
> 
> Happy reading!!

**_1_ **

Betty doesn’t really think much of Jughead’s promise to return her bike without a scratch and she already has security cameras all around the city looking for it, although she is slowly starting to come to terms with the fact that she might never see her baby again. That’s probably why when she walks to the rather small garage underneath her apartment building on a Monday morning, heading towards her Bureau-issued car even though the weather is simply begging her to take a bike to work, the warm travel mug slips through her fingers as her eyes are land on her bike (she is so shocked she doesn’t even notice that the cup doesn’t break or spill, just hits the ground with a loud bang and rolls underneath one of the cars parked nearby).

She slowly approaches the vehicle, not dropping her eyes from it for a single second, as if in a fear that it might evaporate right in front of her. Blindly reaching into her bag, it takes her a few moments of rummaging around, before she manages to locate a pair of white latex gloves, quickly snapping them on her hands before getting any closer.

But it takes her only one look to determine the action had been useless - her bike hadn’t looked this clean probably since she bought it. The black polish shines almost blindingly underneath the harsh neon lights of the garage, the leather seat is free from that weird stain that no amount of scrubbing or cleaning could get off. Even her helmet, fastened to the handlebar is sparkling clean.

Nonetheless, she doesn’t remove the gloves and instead chooses to go for her bag again, quickly locating the small forensic kit she carries around. She is going to check for the prints anyways. _ Better safe than sorry, right? _

Unsurprisingly, after almost thirty minutes of checking all the possible spots for any form of DNA evidence, she has nothing _ and _ she is running late for work. With a heavy sigh, she takes out her phone and calls her boss, explaining the situation quickly. He promises to send a forensic team her way, even though both of them know it’s not really necessary, but still, Betty hangs up with words of thankfulness.

She sighs, leaning against her car while she takes another good look at the bike. _ Why did he take it? And why return it? _Nothing about it makes sense; he couldn’t have known Betty would ride it to the scene of the crime that night - would he have taken her car as well? Did he have any other escape route planned and this was just a spur of a moment decision, or was he desperate with both the police and the FBI agents surrounding the building?

The questions like those haunted her mind her ever since he robbed that bank; but she doesn’t suppose she will get answers to any of them anytime soon. She’d have to catch him first and it was proving to be a rather difficult task.

Mindlessly, she runs her fingers against the bike, lost in thought. She can’t help herself but to think back to their conversation; his flirty tone, his teasing words. The vulnerability in his voice when he asked her if she thought less of him because of who his parents were.

Betty lets out a small laugh at that memory - she remembers the all-nighter she pulled, the one during which she figured his name and who his parents were. She remembers the uneasy feeling that settled in her stomach as she read through the seemingly never-ending files of Forsythe and Gladys, criminal masterminds and notorious gang-leaders. But then, she also remembers her conversation with Fangs, one that only confirmed what she already suspected: _ Jughead Jones is the furthest thing from his parents. _

He might be a wanted criminal, yes. But he doesn’t carry a gun or any weapon, he doesn’t kill or threaten lives. To him, the heists are just like the art he creates; masterpieces, not acts of violence. And to some extent, Betty really understands him.

_ To some extent. _

Her thoughts get interrupted by a car entering the garage, one that promptly parks nearby. Veronica is the first to exit, already fully prepared in her gear and ready to get into work.

“Did you already check the entire thing?” the raven-haired scientist frowns once her eyes fall on the portable kit lying by the bike.

“I was curious,” Betty shrugs, “but please, feel free to go over it yourself.”

Veronica huffs and leans towards the motorcycle, starting her procedure of examining the vehicle.

“What about the trunk?” Veronica asks without lifting her gaze from a spot on the front tire that caught her attention.

“He didn’t have keys for that,” Betty shakes her head.

“He didn’t have keys for the bike and look how that turned out,” Veronica answers promptly as she picks up a speck of something off the tire.

_ That’s a fair point _, Betty thinks and reaches down to the front pocket of her bag, quickly grabbing the keys of the motorcycle. There’s three of them; one to start the engine, one for the lock and one for the trunk of the bike, the small box at the back where she usually stashes her helmet and the lock with its chain. Betty quickly unlocks the box, expecting to find nothing but the chain with a lock inside, so she barely manages to hide her surprise when her eyes fall on a small black box.

She is about to speak up, when she notices a small paper attached to it.

_ For my dear Agent. Use it wisely. _

\- __Jughead x__

And even though it goes against everything that Betty believes in, she bites into her tongue and doesn’t say anything. 

Instead, she quickly scans the garage and when she sees the driver of the car Veronica has arrived in mindlessly scrolling on his phone and Veronica still indulged in the bike’s front tire, Betty slips the small box out of the trunk and into her bag without any more hesitation.

“Nothing in here,” she shakes her head. “I actually need to go and take care of few things upstairs, will you be fine finishing this on your own?” 

“Yeah, sure. Meet you back in the Bureau?” Veronica asks.

“See you there,” Betty nods before quickly turning around and heading towards the staircase that leads to the apartments.

She practically jogs the stairs up, but she isn’t breathless by the time she reaches her apartment. 

No, her breath starts hitching only once she is safe inside, the front door locked behind her securely and the small black box lying on a table in front of her.

She isn’t wearing the gloves anymore, having gotten rid of them long before Veronica arrived, but she doesn’t make a big thing out of it; she already touched the box without them, it is too late now anyways. And it’s not like she could just return it back to evidence now, not without raising some flags, at least on Veronica’s radar. She has made a decision, one that felt right at the time, and now she has to stick with it.

Betty carefully reads through the note one more time, her eyes lingering on the small _ x _in its corner longer than strictly necessary.

But she snaps out of it and eagerly pulls at the white ribbon tying the box together, destroying the small bow that laid on top with one swift motion. She then picks the top of the box up, unsure of what to expect inside.

Her brows furrow when she sees another paper, so she quickly picks it up and starts reading.

_ Dear Agent, _

_ I’m terribly sorry for not being able to deliver this gift to you in person, but as promised, I took good care of your baby and I returned it back home safely and scratch-free. She - or is it he? - is in an excellent state, by the way. Do you take care of her yourself or is there a shop somewhere in New York that can keep a bike up in such a perfect state? Because if there is, I’d love to know - me and my darling would really appreciate it. _

_ But on a slightly different topic, I immensely enjoyed the short conversation we’ve had and I’d love nothing more than to repeat it. I believe you promised me a date, Agent, and I’m very eager to take you up on that offer. Hence, this. _

_ I can’t wait to hear from you. _

_ With love, Jughead. xx _

_ P.S. Thank you for not shooting at me while I was driving. _

Betty loses track of how many times she has read the letter sometime after the seventh time. A mess of _ whats _ and _ hows _ streams through her mind, each one leaving her slightly more confused than she was before.

Her eyes slowly trail away from the note to the box. And there, inside the black cushioning lays a phone.

Betty’s jaw drops at the sight and she grabs the device before she can think twice (or even once).

It’s turned off, so she quickly presses the power button and while she waits for the device to start up, she examines it. There’s nothing interesting about it, it’s a just regular phone. An older one, with buttons instead of a touchscreen, but a phone nevertheless. 

The screen lights up after a few minutes and lets her in without asking for a pin or a password. She quickly browses through its contents, but finds nothing interesting. The phone is wiped empty, except for one contact, labeled with a simple crown emoji.

Betty almost chuckles at that and quickly opens the contact information to see the number attached to it, but it shows up empty. She frowns at that; did he seriously give her a phone to contact him without saving the actual number in? She checks the note he left her once again, the one that clearly states he can’t wait to hear from her. _ How? _

She returns her gaze to the screen, examining everything she can see cautiously. But she still sees no number and things still make no sense.

Betty clicks on the contact once again, bringing the menu open. She examines the options provided, some of them in written black, some of them in lighter gray, marked as unavailable. But one thing catches her eyes - the word _ call _ is in stark black letters.

Unsure of if it means what she thinks it means, Betty’s finger hovers over the green call button for a few seconds.

_ What’s the worst thing that could happen? _ she asks herself and makes a decision.

The phone dials and rings.

** _2_ **

Jughead is just finishing pouring the last of pancake batter onto a pan when a phone on his desk starts ringing. 

“You expecting any calls?” Sweet Pea asks with his mouth full of pancakes, just barely lifting his eyes up from his own phone to look at Jughead.

“Not really,” Jughead’s brows furrow. 

He places the bowl and spatula on the table and quickly crosses the room to find his phone. However, it is only once he’s almost there that a realisation dawns on him - he has his phone is in the pocket of his jeans, ones he’s currently wearing. _ But that would have to mean- _

“Aren’t you going to pick up?” Sweet Pea asks, this time already giving Jughead his full attention.

“It’s the agent,” Jughead says slowly, more of a whisper to himself than an announcement to his friend.

But nevertheless, Sweet Pea catches his words. “What?” he asks, but Jughead doesn’t answer, just continues looking at the ringing phone in front of him. “What do you mean by _ it’s the agent _? Jones, please, tell me you didn’t do something incredibly stupid…” 

Sweet Pea probably continues talking, but to Jughead’s ears, his voice gets drowned out by the sound of ringing. The agent - Betty Cooper - is calling him. He can’t even describe how many times he has dreamt of this moment, imagining every aspect of it, playing out every single possibility. And now, the moment is here.

_ It is here. _

Quickly snapping himself out of the transe, Jughead reaches for the phone and presses the green accept button.

The line is silent, except for two breathing rhythms, synchronising seamlessly.

At the end, it’s Jughead who can’t wait any longer and breaks the silence. “I see you found your bike,” he says calmly and even though Betty doesn’t answer immediately, he catches the shuttering gasp that leaves her lips effortlessly.

Jughead walks across the room to get his still full and way too hot cup of coffee and successfully ignores the daggers that Pea’s eyes hold. He walks onto his apartment’s balcony, shutting the glass doors closed behind himself in order to ensure some sense of privacy from his friend’s prying ears. He sits down on one of the two chairs he has there, ignoring the leftover drops of rain covering the wooden surface that are now seeping into the fabric of his jeans and takes a tentative sip of his coffee, one that burns his lips and tongue; and yet, none of those things seem to matter to him as long as he gets to listen to the agent’s regular breathing through the phone.

“Are you still here, dear?” he asks once he’s all settled. “Not that I mind the silence, but it’s a bit of a conversation killer, don’t you think?”

His eyes roam over the early morning view of New York, the sky already soft blue but the sun still way too low, casting long shadows over the tall buildings and covering them in golden glitter.

“I don’t understand,” Betty says slowly and Jughead doesn’t even have to close his eyes to be able to picture her - her brows are surely furrowed and lips pouted just ever so slightly. 

“Well, if you tell me what you don’t understand, I might be able to help and explain,” Jughead offers, “but you’ve got to talk to me.” 

Jughead expects her to think for a while, to figure out what exactly is the most urgent question on her mind before asking it. But then, he should have learnt by now that Betty Cooper is anything but predictable.

“Why did you do it?” she asks.

The question makes Jughead’s eyebrow shoot up in surprise. “You’ve got to be a bit more specific; I’ve done lots of things.”

“Why did you leave me this phone?” Betty asks.

“Really?” Jughead chuckles. “C’mon, are you really going to ask me questions you already know answers to?”

“I don’t-” Betty starts, but pauses mid-sentence.

“Exactly,” Jughead hums. He reaches for his coffee once again, this time carefully blowing on the liquid’s surface before taking a slow sip, one that thankfully doesn’t burn him. 

“I hadn’t promised you anything,” Betty says after a few seconds of silence.

“I know, I know,” Jughead sighs, rolling his eyes, “but you can’t say that you haven’t been thinking about it.”

It takes Betty a couple seconds to answer. “I haven’t,” she says with such a resolution in her voice, that he almost believes her -if only her voice haven’t wavered with the last syllable. If only.

“But agent, every strong relationship needs to be build on honesty, so why start ours with a lie?” Jughead asks with a teasing voice, but he doesn’t get an answer, instead just an annoyed sigh.

“Why can’t I trace this call?” Betty asks suddenly. 

Jughead can’t say the question has surprised him - he knew for sure that Betty would attempt to trace their call with hopes of learning his location.

“I am a careful person,” Jughead shrugs. He doesn’t really feel like explaining the long and complicated process of getting these two phones into his possession. But what wouldn’t he do to have a way for the two of them to communicate without the risk of exposing his location? “Are you, agent?”

“Am I what?” Betty asks, clearly thrown off by his question.

“A careful person,” Jughead supplies. “I suppose you must be, in your line of work. Maybe almost as careful as I am.”

“And your point?” Betty quickly asks. 

“Just thinking out loud,” Jughead shrugs off the question, carefully cataloging the information into his mind. 

A silence settles between them and this time, Jughead waits for Betty to be the one to break it. And when she does, he expects to hear some kind of question about his criminal life, he expects demands and pleas for him to confess. But none of those come.

“I am,” Betty blurts out quickly. “Careful. Or I usually am, at least,” she adds, which immediately peaks Jughead’s interest.

“My, my, have you done something reckless recently?” Jughead asks teasingly, a wide smirk appearing on his lips.

“This,” Betty admits.

“Calling me?” Jughead asks, prompting her to explain more.

“Yes. And not putting the phone into evidence as I should have. And opening it at my home - fuck, it could have been a bomb or something. Why did I do that?” By the time the last words leave Betty’s moth, Jughead can hear the tremble of her voice, the uncertainty and fear. A sudden need to offer comfort overcomes him, to wrap his arms around her body and whisper sweet nothings and promises into her hair until all of her troubles are long lost and forgotten. He pushes those thoughts down, locking them away as far away as possible.

“Because you know me Betty,” Jughead says kindly, his voice low and soothing. “You know what kind of person I am and tell me, is that person a killer?”

A second of silence that follows his question almost breaks Jughead’s heart.

“No, you aren’t,” Betty admits and relief washes over Jughead instantly. “But you’re a criminal and I’m a federal agent tasked with bringing you to justice. How can I know what lengths you would go to to ensure that never happens?” 

Jughead thinks before answering for a second, pondering how much he is willing to share, how much he can share. 

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me,” Jughead settles on at the end, deciding it’s better not to tell the agent that he would never, in a million years, do anything that might end up hurting her. 

“Trust?” Betty chuckles desperately. “Are you seriously asking me to trust you?”

“Is that too crazy?” Jughead asks.

“How can I - no, why would I do that? Alright, entertain me. Give me one reason why I should.”

Jughead doesn’t have to think about what he wants to say, but yet, he pauses for a dramatic effect. He allows himself to listen to the agent’s regular breathing pattern through the phone, focusing solely on her soft exhales, blocking out all of the noise of the busy street underneath him. “Because you know me, Betty. And, despite the fact that I hate it, you also know who my parents are. And deep down in your heart, you know I’m nothing like them,” Jughead says slowly, finding his voice a bit strained by the time he finishes.

There’s nothing but a silence coming from Betty and for a second, Jughead worriedly checks the screen of the phone to make sure she hasn’t hung up. Turns out, she hasn’t, so he places the phone back against his ear and waits for her answer.

But when the long silence is interrupted, it isn’t by Betty’s sweet voice. Instead, the voice is much ruffer and lower. “Isn’t that enough of playing around?” Sweet Pea asks him and although he adds a little laugh after the question, Jughead doesn’t miss the pissed off tone in his best friend’s voice.

He doesn’t turn around to face him, instead just sighs and lifts his arm up, showing him a middle finger.

“Yeah, the same to you. Fangs is here, so get in,” he says and quickly leaves the balcony, shutting the door behind himself with a loud thud.

“I’m afraid work calls,” Jughead says slowly. “And speaking of work, where are you? Are you calling me from the Bureau? _ Naughty _,” Jughead laughs, barely whispering the last word.

“I’m home,” Betty finally says. “I had to call in the forensics because of my bike.”

“Oh, of course, that makes sense,” Jughead nods absentmindedly. “Well then, I won’t keep you any longer. I’m really looking forward talking to you again, love. I’ll call you, alright?”

He doesn’t give her time or space to argue as he quickly ends the call before Betty has a chance to utter a single word. He stands up, picks up the half-empty coffee mug and walks over to the balcony’s railing, allowing himself to savour this one last moment of peace before going in and dealing with whatever news fangs brought. 

He is about to finish the coffee, when the phone in his hand vibrates with an incoming message. Jughead’s arm lowers, removing the mug from his lips as he quickly opens the text, his eyes eagerly jumping over the few letters.

_ Agent: I know. _

The two simple words send a shiver down his spine, one that makes all of his hairs stand straight up, but not in a bad way. No, in fact, it’s quite the opposite; it’s the best feeling ever.

Jughead finishes the rest of his coffee in one quick gulp and looks over the morning New York City one last time, with a stupid wide grin plastered on his lips and happiness hazing his sight.

If only it hadn’t been, he probably would have noticed a flash go off at the corner of the street, followed by a man haphazardly tucking the camera into his bag and hastily disappearing into the passing crowd.

** _3_ **

Betty has always been one to enjoy the quiet nights in, ones where she was alone with a random sitcom playing on her tablet in low volume and a bathtub overflowing with essential oils and bath salts. And preferably a bottle of wine. Or two.

That’s the main reason why she forewent Archie’s invitation to join him and Veronica for a couple of drinks, offering him an apology and a small excuse that she desperately needed to catch up on sleep after the busy week. 

And she wasn’t lying - the week was really busy. It started with another of Jughead’s heists landing on her desk and no matter how much she tried to suppress her feelings, an emotional whirlwind followed her like a dark cloud the entire week. 

Since the call that Betty initiated once she discovered the phone, the two of them hadn’t contacted each other. Betty couldn’t muster up enough courage to try to dial his number again, realizing fully that the first time she did it was a stupid, spur-of-a-moment decision and definitely not a one that she should be repeating any time soon. 

However, she also couldn’t muster up enough courage to let go of the whole thing, which resulted into her carrying the phone at her at all times and with it, a small quiver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t dreamt everything up.

And so with the recklessness of her decisions weighing her down, everything about her job seemed much harder and slower and she caught herself thinking on more than one occasion that the things probably couldn’t get any worse.

But then Veronica appeared on her doorstep on Wednesday night, her eyes all teary and breathing laboured. It took two cups of hot chocolate with an unhealthy dose of marshmallows to calm the girl down enough for her to be able to form coherent sentences once again. Turns out, there has been some new development in her father’s case, a new evidence coming to light or whatever, and now, the jury has decided to reopen it, forcing Veronica to face the man that she despises more than anything else once again. Betty feels sorry for her friend and conforms her with as many hugs as promises of support as she can muster, but only once Veronica leaves in slightly better mood, Betty allows herself to breathe out and to try to understand the situation better by putting herself into Veronica’s shoes.

However, just a few seconds of imagining what it would feel like to see her own father again, to have to breathe the same air as he, to have to look into the cold eyes that once held love and affection only to find them staring back with nothing but emptiness; just a few seconds of that is enough to send her gasping for air and struggling to stand straight. 

She almost called Jughead that night, her fingers hovering over the green call button for what felt like hours. But the feelings of panic that clutched at her chest slowly passed and with them so did the temptation to dial the number and listen to the smooth voice coming through the speaker. 

Sadly, the temptation might have passed, but the heavy feeling didn’t.

Luckily, Betty has lived long enough to know a proper cure for emotions like those. A sitcom with over-the-top acting, scented bubble bath and a bit too much of wine.

She leans back, her head dropping against the cold rim of the bathtub and she finally lets herself completely tune the world out. There’s nothing that matters in that moment, nothing but the warmth embracing her body, the tingling sensation of alcohol running through her veins and the stupid jokes followed by obnoxious laughter filling the air around her.

Betty believes she could stay like this forever.

However, it seems that the world doesn’t agree with her beliefs as her happy place is disturbed by a piercing ringing of her phone coming out from the pile of her clothes by the bathtub. Betty’s brows furrow and for a moment, she contemplates ignoring it - whatever it is, it surely can wait for few more hours. Or until tomorrow.

But as the phone continues ringing, a realisation dawns upon her - that’s not her ringtone. Her eyes snap open and she quickly moves, water dripping from her wet arms all around the floor as she reaches for her jeans and fishes out the ringing phone from their pocket.

The phone that she has found in the trunk of her bike just days ago.

The phone she talked with Jughead on.

She wants to hesitate before picking up, she wants to stop her finger and let it hover over the answer button for a few seconds, she wants to take some time to think this through properly, but the phone has been ringing for quite a while already and there’s no way she’s going to risk missing this call.

So she presses the green accept button and places the phone against her ear.

“And here I was, thinking you weren’t going to pick up,” Jughead’s smooth voice sounds through the phone and Betty wants to roll her eyes at his words, but instead she feels her cheeks heating up and she’s almost completely sure that it has nothing to do with the warm water or the half-empty bottle of wine.

“And miss the opportunity to hear you slip up about that Cézanne that you stole earlier this week? Never,” Betty answers, half-seriously and half-teasingly.

“Did I?” Jughead asks, his voice full of fake innocence. 

“_The house with cracked walls_,” Betty says.

“The name rings some bells, yes,” Jughead hums. 

Betty rolls her eyes. “What’s so special about it?” Betty asks, choosing to voice the thoughts that wouldn’t stop nagging at her ever since she received the case. “It wasn’t the most valuable of his paintings in that room by far. You could have scored a lot more money than you will for that one.”

“Not everything in life is about money, agent,” Jughead says slowly, “a lot of factors influence the choosing.”

“Feel free to enlighten me about the process,” Betty slips carefully, knowing that if he chooses to do so, he would be offering her an enormous advantage in taking him down.

But Jughead Jones isn’t stupid and instead of answering, her erupts into a laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know, dear?” he asks. “But let me tell you, sometimes, the message is more important than the financial gain.”

Betty thinks about the words for a second, her mind returning to a conversation she had with Archie many months ago as they were on their way to the first of Jughead’s crime scenes. “So there really are messages behind your heists,” she says out loud, more for herself than for Jughead.

“You don’t seem surprised at all,” Jughead says with a clear interest in his voice.

“I had a hunch,” Betty shrugs nonchalantly, as if it was the most normal and boring thing ever, doing her best to hide the happiness and pride that is blossoming in her chest - _ she knew it. _

“Alright, now you have to tell me - which heist tipped you off?” Jughead asks. 

But Betty has had a few glasses of wine so she just laughs and shakes her head, not even caring that he can’t see the motion. Thankfully, Jughead figures her answer out even without having to see it.

“Oh, so you aren’t going to tell me? Well then I’m going to guess,” Jughead says and hums for a few seconds before taking a guess. “Was it the first one?” he asks.

Betty pouts a little, disappointed that he has guessed the answer on the first try. “_I don’t care! I’d rather sink than call Brad for help!” _ Betty quotes the text that is written on the painting with a mocking voice. “It wasn’t that hard to put two and two together, you know?”

“I know,” Jughead agrees, “but I had to make sure that certain people would understand it.”

The next words slip out from Betty’s lips without her approval. “Your parents.”

Silence falls between them and for a moment, Betty is sure that he is going to hang up on her. She didn’t mean to say that; hell, she wasn’t even sure how she has come to that conclusion - it just made sense.

“My parents,” Jughead sighs after a while. “_ The house with cracked walls _ was just too tempting to steal as a big _ screw you _ to them.”

Betty opens her mouth to say something, but then promptly closes it, unsure of what she wants to say. She doesn’t know - she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do in a situation like this. She doesn’t even know how she got into a situation like this - everything seems fuzzy and confusing and the only thing that she is sure of is that she doesn’t know.

It takes Jughead a few more seconds to snap out of the shock and thoughts. “Funny thing, that’s actually the reason why I’m calling you.”

“Oh, is it?” Betty asks, glad for the change of the topic and is instantly intrigued by the new one.

“Well, not directly. See, my friend has this, let’s say a legal issue and I promised to help him out,” Jughead starts, but pauses before continuing. “Is this a bad time?”

Betty’s brows furrow. “No, why would you ask that?”

“Dear, I would recognise Brooklyn 99’s jokes any time,” Jughead laughs, “I can call you later.” 

“No, no, wait!” Betty says hastily, “just give me one second, alright?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jughead hums.

Betty places the phone down and quickly turns the episode of Brooklyn 99 off (it’s not like she has been paying attention to it anyways), pulls out the bathtub’s plug and climbs out. She dries herself off as quickly as possible before wrapping a fluffy bathrobe around her body and picking up both the phone and wine glass. She walks to the living room, where she empties the rest of the bottle into her glass.

Once comfortably seated on her sofa and with a full glass hovering near her lips, she presses the phone back against her ear. “So, what’s the issue?” she asks.

“Forget that for a moment - did you just get out of your bathtub?” Jughead asks and Betty’s cheeks heat up in embarrassment for the second time during the call.

“Maybe,” she says with a small voice.

“You could have stayed in,” Jughead says slowly, his voice low and flirty. “Had I known, I would have ran one myself, put on some nice music, opened a bottle of wine and we could have made a date out of it.”

Betty’s breath hitches at that, her face heating up and stomach twisting, although she isn’t quite sure if the cause is the anticipation or the awkwardness of the whole conversation. She wants to tell him to stop, wants to scold him for flirting with her, wants to remind him that they have no business doing any of this, not even talking, but then, she doesn’t want to do any of that, _ not really _.

“So, your friend has a legal problem?” Betty changes the topic, clearing her throat in the process in an attempt to sound completely normal and unbothered by his words.

“Alright, I see, you’re all business tonight,” Jughead teases. “But yes and I’d really appreciate your input.”

“Wouldn’t a legal problem be better discussed with, I don’t know, a lawyer?” Betty asks him.

“I first need to make sure it’s even worth it going to a lawyer,” Jughead offers.

“Well, let’s hear it then,” Betty prompts him to start speaking, picking up her glass and slowly sipping on the wine.

“My friend got caught up in my parent’s business many years ago, but now he’d very much like to get out. However, things are never that simple with them and he’s pretty certain that they’d have him killed if he said he wanted out,” Jughead explained slowly.

“And you want me to get him into some sort of protection program?” Betty asks, realising where this is heading.

“Would that be possible?” Jughead asks hopefully.

“I mean, it’s not impossible,” Betty says, already thinking of how it would work. “There are things that would make the whole process a lot easier.”

“Such as?” Jughead asks, prompting Betty to explain. 

She finished the rest of the wine, licking the leftover liquid from her lips as she puts the empty glass down on the table. “I could get him into witness protection if he’s willing to testify against your parents,” Betty offers slowly, wary of the reaction Jughead might have. Even when from what she’s heard she knows Jughead isn’t their biggest fan, they’re still his parents which means she needs to approach the subject carefully.

“That would mean we’d never be able see him again, right?” Jughead asks.

“It’s safest that way,” Betty nods.

“Isn’t there something, I don’t know, less drastic?” 

Betty closes her eyes, thinking for a second. “Honestly, it’d all depend on the information he’d provide for us. If it was enough to finally dismantle all of their operations and send the vast majority of them behind the bars, he’d be fine with continuing with his normal life. But if it won’t be enough, it would be too risky to return. Gangs aren’t really fond of snitches, so I imagine the consequences would be ugly,” she explains, her eyes still closed.

“So, witness protection it is,” Jughead hums slowly.

“Would he be alright with that?” Betty asks.

“I’ll have to check, but I’m pretty certain he’d take anything over the life he is currently leading. And I have experienced what my parents’ clutches feel first hand, so believe me if I tell you when he says he fears for his life, he isn’t lying or exaggerating.”

Betty desperately wants to hear more about it, but she doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries, too afraid of ruining the delicate relationship they slowly started building. It all feels too precious, too fragile and although every cell in Betty’s body is screaming at her that it also feels too wrong, she just ignores them, choosing to numb her insecurities by getting up and fetching another bottle of wine.

“Your parents’ case isn’t part of my division, but I’ll ask around and I’ll let you know, alright?” Betty offers as she fills up her empty glass.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Jughead says so happily that Betty can almost imagine the wide grin on his face.

“I’m not promising anything yet, so don’t get your or his hopes up,” Betty says, feeling the need to warn him, even though all signs are pointing to the possibility of it working out.

“I’m sure the Bureau will not pass up on an opportunity to get one of my father’s most trusted people to testify against him,” Jughead laughs, shocking Betty for a second by both the words and the sound.

“Wait, he’s one of his most trusted people? Why does he want to get out?” Betty asks, surprised by the fact. It was very rare for somebody with such a high and prestigious position in the criminal world to suddenly want to quit.

“He says he grew tired of always having to look over his shoulder, but I have it on a good authority that he fell in love and doesn’t want to risk dragging his boyfriend into all of that shit,” Jughead explains.

“You do know that he probably won’t be able to take his boyfriend into the witness protection, right?” Betty asks. If what Jughead is saying is true, if his friend wants to get out because he wants to keep somebody dear to him safe and happy, voluntarily getting into a program that makes him cut off all of his ties to his friends doesn’t seem like the smartest idea.

“I know. Look, I’ll talk to him about it, but if I’m being honest, I think he’d take the deal nonetheless. So, ask around please?”

“I will,” Betty promises.

“Thank you, I owe you one,” Jughead says quickly and it takes a moment for Betty to comprehend what he has said.

“You owe me one? I can ask for anything?” she asks quickly, unsure if she’s understanding him correctly. 

Jughead laughs at her question and once again, she feels taken a bit aback by how comforting she finds the sound. “Well, there are few things I wouldn’t do for you, agent. If you’re going to ask me to turn myself in, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Betty says innocently, but both of them are aware that she’s lying. 

“Just making sure then,” Jughead hums. “Don’t feel pressured to cash the favour in now, I am a man of my word and when I say I owe you, I will pay you back in whatever way you deem fit.”

Betty considers his words for a few seconds before a crazy idea flashes through her mind. _She should ask him for that date,_ she thinks. _Is it wrong?_ _Oh and how much_. She should be thinking of ways to catch him, to put him behind bars - after all, the man has stolen millions worth of art over the course of the last year - but what is she doing instead? Daydreaming about a date with him.

Even though it goes against all of her rules, against everything she stands for as a person and a federal agent, she finds herself unable to ignore the pull she feels towards the criminal; she finds herself unable to not to wonder if he feels the same or if the endless flirtation is just a game to him. She wants to know; she needs to know.

So, she opens her mouth to propose her idea, but Jughead beats her to speaking. “It was lovely to chat with you dear, as it always is, but sadly, some urgent matters still require my attention. I’ll let you know my friend’s decision as soon as possible, alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Betty just quickly nods, pushing the thoughts she had just seconds ago out of her mind. _ It was a stupid idea nonetheless, _ she tells herself. “Talk to you later,” she adds and hangs up without even waiting for a goodbye.

She reaches for the wine glass and takes a big swing of the drink, hoping that the soft burn of the alcohol would drown out the anxiety that started settling in her chest.

And although it doesn’t, by the time she finishes the glass, her mind is too much of an intoxicated mess to care anyways. 

_ Why must the first man she is even remotely interested in be a fucking criminal she’s supposed to put behind bars? _

** _4_ **

Exhausted and out-of-ideas. That’s how Betty would describe her current situation if anybody asked her. But, since it is past midnight on Friday night (or is it considered Saturday already?) and she is probably the only person desperate and pathetic enough to still be in the Bureau's building, there’s nobody to ask her that question, so she allows herself to pretend that maybe, _ just maybe_, it isn’t that bad.

Following the call with Jughead on last Friday, she couldn’t focus on anything during the course of the entire weekend and definitely not on the pile of unopened cases that sat on her coffee table, left untouched for the entire two days. She desperately wanted to get started on them, knowing the distraction would be more than welcome, but for some reason, she just couldn’t get her mind to focus. So instead she spent the majority of the weekend binging sitcoms and trying to ignore the constantly growing heaviness in her chest.

But once Monday finally came around, there was no more space or time for postponing work, so Betty dove into the first case on the top of the pile, hoping that she’s find the enthusiasm somewhere along the way.

However, Monday somehow turned into Friday and now here she was, still stuck on the same spot.

She doesn’t get it - work has always been something she could just do; she rarely got stuck, she rarely ran out of leads to follow or options to explore. But for some cruel reason, the universe has decided that now was the right time to mess with that.

It should have been an easy case, one that she gets over with in a matter of hours. A rather wealthy American businessman has seeked their advice, as he’s pretty sure the Monet painting that his distant family member from Belgium gifted him recently is a forgery.

They brought the painting in on Tuesday and with it all of the official documents of purchase and ownership. Everything about it seemed legit; except at the same time it didn’t. 

She and Veronica went through all of the scans, all of the inspections, took plenty of samples and studied them and so far, everything was pointing to the painting being real. Every single test they ran showed that the materials used for creation fit into the time period of the painting. But then, the aging of the painting seemed a bit too artificial for Betty’s liking and although Veronica told her hours ago to let it go and go home to get some rest, she keeps staring at the screen, trying to figure out what she isn’t seeing.

Frustrated, she releases a deep sigh and rubs her eyes vigorously. The blues and oranges of the painting mix together, spilling and combining, making the brushstrokes almost invisible and the colours even more vivid, the picture almost coming to life right in front of Betty’s eyes.

She is tired and she knows it. But she desperately needs a win and she is going to close this case tonight. 

In her sleepy haze, Betty isn’t sure how the idea occurs to her; if it is thanks to the fleeting glance through the room’s window towards her desk, where her ‘murder’ board on Jughead is still on display; or if it is thanks to the brush of her fingers against the small phone while she browses her bag for a snack; or if it is thanks to the forged painting itself; but somehow, the idea occurs to her. 

And since she’s desperate for help, she doesn’t think twice before retrieving the phone and dialing the only number that’s saved inside.

It should be surprising when Jughead picks up after the third ring, but somehow, Betty is far from surprised.

“Agent,” Jughead breathes out.

“Hey, do you have a minute?” Betty asks quickly.

“Yeah, sure, just give me a second,” Jughead says.

There’s a moment of silence, which is a tad too long and Betty’s anxiety takes that as an opportunity to catch up with her. _ What is she thinking, calling Jughead? He will laugh you off, there’s no way he’ll help - _

“What’s up?” Jughead interrupts Betty’s train of thoughts and she sends him a silent _ thank you _. She is in no shape to go down that road, definitely not today.

Betty takes a deep breath before speaking. “I was hoping you’d return the favour you promised.”

“So soon?” Jughead asks curiously. “I’m listening.”

“Well, since I helped you out thanks to my job, I was kind of hoping you’d do the same,” Betty says quickly, praying Jughead won’t decline.

He falls silent for few seconds and Betty can almost feel her heart beating in her throat. 

“Are you asking me to steal something for you, agent? Because although I’d love to hear that, I’m afraid I will have to decline,” Jughead says politely.

“What? No,” Betty shakes her head. “Not that part of your job. The artistic one,” she adds as an explanation.

“Oh, that makes a lot more sense,” Jughead laughs. “How may I be of service?”

It’s enough for Betty to hear his kind and helpful voice for her to throw all of the hesitation and uncertainties behind her head and get into explaining. “We’ve recently received a painting the owner believes to be a forgery and although almost all of the tests came back positive, something about it just doesn’t feel right. And I was kind of hoping you’d be able to pinpoint what it was, since it’s basically your job,” Betty explains, spilling the words out quickly so Jughead wouldn’t have a chance to interrupt and decline her proposal.

There’s a beat of silence, before she hears him click his tongue and speak again. “How can I be sure you won’t arrest me the moment you get close enough?”

Truth be told, Betty didn’t plan this far before dialing his number; _ hell_, she didn’t even think he’d entertain her idea. A part of her believed that he’d shut her down, hang up on her with laughter still fresh on his lips. 

He flirts with her, he compliments her, but how can she know what is real and what’s just a pretence? How can she know that all of that isn’t just a way for him to ensure his freedom, to ensure that he doesn’t get caught? _ Emotions cloud judgement - _

“Agent? Are you still there?” Jughead’s tentative voice reaches her ears, even through the crappy speaker sounding smooth as honey. _ Don’t drown in its sweetness. _

“Sorry, I just got lost for a moment,” Betty shakes her head in an attempt to discard the thoughts. “Hmm, you just trust me?”

Jughead laughs, the sound loud and rasp; and as Betty blinks, she can almost see him at the backs of her lids, throwing his head back in laughter. “I’m afraid that won’t be enough.”

Betty licks her lips - she knows, _ she knows_. But how is she supposed to come up with a plan that would allow him to inspect the painting without completely breaking every single rule and law; how is she supposed to come up with a plan when she can barely focus with him on the other end of line? 

“Can you get the painting out of the Bureau?” Jughead asks then, his voice clean of the laughter.

Betty’s eyes dart towards the clock on a wall. “I should be able to, yes.”

“Great, I’ll text you an address. Be there in, hmm, thirty let’s say?” Jughead rambles quickly. “I’ll arrange everything, no need to worry your pretty head.”

And he hangs up before Betty can muster up an answer.

She frowns at the phone in her hand - how could the conversation go both worse and better than she expected? How could the conversation make her even more confused about Jughead, about what’s wrong and right, about her own feelings?

_ When did she give him the power to do that? _

But there’s not time to ponder about that as the phone’s screen lights up with a new incoming message, one that features an address in the lower Bronx, finished by a small _ x _ and a crown emoji, both of which make Betty roll her eyes vigorously ( _ and if they also make her heart flutter just a tiniest bit, nobody needs to know_).

***

Betty’s leg nervously bounces up and down as she kills the engine of her car. She’s parked few meters down from the address in the city’s docks Jughead had texted her and from the looks of it, the whole area seems to be hauntingly deserted, her heavy breathing behind the car’s windows the only source of sound within miles.

She takes a deep breath - why did she think this would be a good idea? What part of her assumed that calling a wanted criminal, one that she is supposed to be working on catching and putting behind bars, and asking him for a help with her job was a smart thing to do? How did her brain short-circuit this badly?

She needs to leave; she can’t do this, no. It is all too much - this isn’t a flirty letter hidden for her in the trunk of her bike, this isn’t a spur-of-a-moment call to satiate her curiosity or even his decision to consult her about the possibility of helping out his friend. No, this isn’t justifiable in any way; this is just plain stupid and she knows it. 

And yet, she can’t bring herself to turn the keys in the ignition and start the engine once again and leave.

Her fingers are numb and Betty can’t determine if it is caused by the cold that seeps into the car with the heating turned off, or if it is just due to the anticipation mixed with fear coursing through her veins. Either way, she finds herself unable to move, unable to reach for her phone or to get out of the car - so, she just sits frozen, her gaze fixed at something in distance but even the link between her eyes and brain seems to be malfunctioning as all she sees is just a blurry mess of far away lights.

_ Breathe, just breathe_. _ In and - _

A knock on her window startles her. 

Her head snaps to the side and her eyes are met with a person standing next to her door; dressed in all black, with a baseball cap pulled as low as possible to cover the majority of his face, a familiar figure hovers over the window. But even with the shitty disguise and in the relative darkness provided by the weak lamps, it takes Betty next to no time to put two and two together. 

She slowly rolls down her window, not quite daring to open the door just yet.

“Lovely to see you again,” Fangs says as a form of greeting, his voice low and teasing.

Betty resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Don’t act as if you hadn’t been following me the last few weeks.”

Fangs chuckles. “Have I?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for Betty’s answer. “I guess there’s no way to know for sure.”

Betty has a remark on the tip of her tongue about how the folder in her computers full of photos of Fangs following her around, ones that she took over the last few weeks seems like a proof enough, but she bites into her lip in the last moments before saying anything. After all, you should never show a criminal your entire hand.

“So, what’s the plan?” Betty asks, deciding that there’s been enough of a chitchat. This isn’t a catch-up meeting with a friend; no, this is a very stupid and risky idea, one that should have never occurred to her in the first place.

Fangs’ face morphs into a serious one, his expression copying Betty’s tone. “First, you’ll need to get out of the car.”

Betty raises her eyebrow on him, but obliges. She rolls her window back up and takes a deep calming breath before pushing on the door handle and exiting the vehicle.

“Alright, I presume you’re going to search me now?” Betty asks.

Fangs nods with a wide smile. “You’re smarter than you let on.”

Betty just chuckles and waits patiently while Fangs checks her for a weapon or a recording device and she has to admit, he’s doing quite well; it’s far from the sloppy and careless job she has expected him to do. There’s a certain professionality to his moves, one that feels awfully familiar to Betty and she almost asks him where he has learnt that, because his procedure is far too complex and precise to be self-taught.

But by the time she musters up the courage and finds enough reasons why she should ask, Fangs pats her on her shoulder couple of times. “You’re good to go.”

“Good to go where?” Betty asks skeptically. 

“You’ve got the painting?” he asks instead of answering.

Betty nods and walks over to the trunk of her car where she had stashed the tube with the rolled painting. Her fingers curl securely around the plastic material - if something happens to it, she’s going to be in a _ lot _ of trouble.

Fangs’ eyes jump between her and the tube few times, before he motions her to follow him across the street.

The area is completely secluded and the rusty shipping containers look so haunting she wouldn’t dare to step nearby any of them even during a sunny and light day. However, she still finds herself following Fangs into the unknown, unsure where she found the courage or trust to do so.

He leads them deeper into the maze of colourful containers and the further they go, the less well-kept they appear to be. Also, Betty is pretty sure that if he left her now, she wouldn’t be able to find her way back - and it dawns on her that that’s probably the point. _ Hell _, for all she knows, he’s making her walk in circles in an attempt to confuse her and make sure she won’t be able to retrace their steps tomorrow (which she definitely was going to try).

After what seems like an eternity of wandering around the horribly lit docks that smell probably worse than New York’s sewers (and Betty would know, since she sadly had the pleasure of visiting them once or twice while working), Fangs finally comes to a halt in front of one of the containers.

If somebody asked Betty to pick that one out of a line-up of containers, she probably wouldn’t be able to - it was the most boring and ordinary one. She still tries to pick up some identifying markers, anything that would help her to locate this place, but the darkness is working against her and she comes up empty-handed.

Fangs knocks on the thin metallic doors few times, his fist landing in a rhythmic sequence that Betty carefully memorises. It might come in handy one day.

A few seconds pass, ones that only make Betty grow restless and anxious.

But then, sounds of footsteps dragging along the ground and a heavy key shuffling in a lock reach her ears and with that, her breath catches.

_ She’s really going to meet Jughead Jones, face-to-face. _

There are way too many emotions and feelings flowing and crashing in Betty’s body as the door to the container opens, rendering her brain momentarily useless. Even in almost a complete darkness, she manages to make out the outlines of his features and with that, her mind slowly kicks in and coherent thoughts starts forming.

_ The photos we have of him don’t do him justice _, is the first one that runs through her head and Betty can’t even argue with it, because it’s true. 

She knew that he wasn’t a bad looking guy, but who would have guessed that he was this stunning? Who would have thought that she’d lose her breath as she laid her eyes on him? Who would have thought that her stomach would flutter and knees grow weaker?

_ Why is this happening? _

A wide smile forms on Jughead’s lips and Betty’s heart skips a beat. “Agent, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he says and outstretches his hand for Betty to shake.

It takes her a moment to comprehend what’s going on and then another to make limbs move. His palm feels soft and warm against hers and even the short touches sends shivers down her spine.

“Come in?” he asks more than says, stepping out of the way to let her enter the container.

And so she does as she’s told, stepping inside without any hesitation. 

She wasn’t sure what to expect when Jughead said he’d make sure they’ll have a place to meet - probably something that would look very last minute, surely lacking equipment and tools to examine the painting. But in front of her is a setup that could easily rival the Bureau's - a handful of machines are buzzing lowly, accompanied by microscopes and huge lamps, all connected to a powerfully-looking computer on a desk.

“Why do you have all of this stuff?” Betty hears herself asking in awe.

Jughead laughs as he walks deeper into the room, stopping once he reaches the computer. He clicks on something on the screen few times before turning to Betty. “It’s my job,” he shrugs.

Betty wants to argue that it isn’t - his job is to commit heists, make forgeries and be a pain in her ass - but then, she can understand that this can also be considered his job to some extent. After all, he needs to make sure his work is perfect and that’s way easier if you have access to proper tools and machines.

He claps his hands together and a wide smile spreads across his face. “So, the painting?” he asks enthusiastically.

Betty shakes her head, surprised by his attitude. “Yeah,” she quickly nods.

She crosses the rest of the shipping container until she reaches the desk, stopping before it so that the desk would form a physical barrier between their two bodies. Jughead offers her a pair of blue latex gloves which she gratefully accepts and pulls on her hands before popping the tube open and gently extracting the painting out of it.

“May I?” Jughead asks, pointing finger at the still rolled paper in her hand.

“Be my guest,” Betty answers and passes him the painting.

He takes it from her and carefully unrolls it. He’s focused on the task at hand completely, which gives Betty opportunity to study him from close.

The photos she has of him really don’t do him justice - neither of them managed to capture his prominent cheekbones or that jawline of his. Or those small moles that litter his cheeks, ones that remind Betty of constellations adorning the night sky. Or the blue of his eyes, one of oceans and seas, one that she’d drown in willingly.

“Are you staring at me because you want to improve that sketch of me you have, or is there something on my face?” Jughead asks without lifting his eyes from the painting.

Betty’s cheeks immediately grow red from embarrassment. “I wasn’t staring,” she attempts to defend herself.

But that only makes Jughead laugh. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. He rolls the painting back up and slowly places it on the desk. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to return the favour.”

His intense gaze pierces her and Betty has to expend a lot of self-restraint and power to not drop hers, to not bow down in front of the storm that seems to be raging inside his soul. Though slowly, but surely, she loses herself in it; giving herself fully and completely into its madness.

A machine beeps somewhere nearby, making both of them startle as the moment breaks. 

Betty clears her throat. “So, the painting.”

“Yeah, the painting,” Jughead nods. He goes to pick it up once again, but his hand stops mid-air and pulls back.

Betty shoots him a questioning look, one that prompts a playful smirk to settle on his lips.

“Where did you get it?” he asks.

“Our client received it as a gift from his Belgian relative,” Betty offers, knowing all too well that she can’t share any names or details with him.

“Belgium, you say,” Jughead hums and Betty is pretty sure he chuckles.

“Something funny?” she asks.

That prompts another small laugh from him. “No, no,” he shakes his head.

She looks at him suspiciously but doesn’t press him for more. “Are you going to help me?”

“I promised, didn’t I?” 

“You did,” Betty agrees.

“And I’m a man of my word,” Jughead says somberly. His eyes drop to the rolled up painting and linger for a second. He bites into his lip and his eyebrows furrow slightly.

Betty recognises all of those expressions all too well. “Out with it.”

Jughead sighs and his eyes find hers. “It’s a forgery.”

“Oh,” Betty says as she presses her brows together in confusion. “And you know that from the few seconds you’ve spent looking at it?”

Jughead doesn’t answer, instead carefully picks up the painting. Betty expects him to open it and show her what was so obvious that it took him mere seconds to spot it, but she has missed during the endless hours of staring at it and running every possible test available, but instead he opens the plastic tube and returns the painting inside. He checks if it is closed securely before handing it to her over the desk.

Betty stares at him confused.

“You’ve asked me to figure out if it’s the real deal or a forgery and I did,” Jughead says. He pokes her with the tube lightly, probably in an attempt to make her take it from him, but Betty folds her arms across her chest and shakes her head in refusal.

“I’m going to need a bit more than that,” she says. “I can’t exactly make a conclusion without a solid proof.”

Jughead stares at her for a few seconds, but her gaze probably gets too intense after a few moments because he averts his eyes, choosing to rather examine the tube he’s holding. “If you check the entire painting for aging, I’m certain you’ll find that the bottom and top parts seem a lot younger the middle. And I’m also pretty sure that the white colour isn’t consistent with the time period of the painting production.”

He bumps the tube into her arm once again and this time, Betty reluctantly accepts it.

“And you know all of this... from one look?” Betty asks carefully.

Jughead sighs before rubbing his hands through his face. “I can’t tell you how I know it.”

Betty doesn’t need to hear anything more - the realisation hits her immediately. Why he asked her where they got it, how he could tell what was wrong with it without barely needing to look at it. 

“Oh,” Betty whispers. 

He can’t tell her because at the end of the day, she’s still a federal agent and if any sort of confession left his mouth, he’d be putting her in a compromising position.

She hoped that Jughead would be able to shed some light on her investigation, maybe point her in a right direction or even figure it all out, but not in her wildest dreams she expected the forgery to be his work. Suddenly, she’s unsure of what to say or how to act; she is confused and shocked in every way possible. The only thing she knows is that she needs to leave right now.

“I can’t be here,” Betty shakes her head and Jughead nods in understanding.

“You know, this almost classified as that date you’ve promised me,” Jughead says with a chuckle, but the laughter feels forced on his lips. 

Betty doesn’t find the strength to answer, so she only lets the right corner of her lips jump up, tugging her mouth into a small smile.

“Fangs is waiting outside, he’ll walk you back,” Jughead says when he realises Betty isn’t going to say anything. 

She is far too gone and lost in the maze of shipping containers when she remembers that she hasn’t even thanked him for his help.

_ Next time_, a part of her whispers.

_ But will there be a next time? _another quips right back.

Betty isn’t sure which one she’d prefer to come true.

** _5_ **

“I’m really sorry Betty, you know I hate to cancel on you like this,” Archie’s apologies keep coming through the phone, making Betty sigh heavily.

“It’s alright, just go and be with Veronica,” Betty tells him, in what she hopes to be an encouraging tone.

“Thank you, you’re the best,” Archie says kindly, “and I promise you to take you to that exhibition next week, okay?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m already here, I’ll just check it out on my own. I know how much you dislike looking at art in your spare time,” Betty says with a chuckle. 

For somebody who works in the FBI’s division specialising at forgeries and theft of art pieces, Archie has a very little interest in art. If it weren’t for his job, the guy would probably never step a foot in an art gallery or a museum. And while Betty understands that it is a really personal thing, she sometimes can’t wrap her head around the fact that this is the career path he chose to pursue.

“You sure?” Archie asks slowly.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Say hi to Veronica from me, alright? She’ll do great,” Betty says supportingly. 

Ever since the reopening of Hiram Lodge’s case due to some new evidence that has been found couple of weeks back, Veronica has been more stressed and on edge than ever. And if Archie’s presence helped to calm her nerves, then who was Betty to stand in a way of it?

“I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you tonight to let you know how it went, alright?” Archie’s voice drifts away with the last few words, his attention probably already refocused away from the phone call.

“Please, do,” Betty hums. She doesn’t even have time to say goodbye before the line disconnects, leaving her truly completely alone in front of the Museum of Modern Art.

Unlike Archie, Betty really enjoys art. She doesn’t consider herself to be any kind of expert or nothing like that, she just simply enjoys the different techniques, styles and emotions behind the art pieces. So, when she has learnt that MoMA was about to hold a temporary exhibition celebrating Jackson Pollock, she couldn’t hide her excitement and decided to drag Archie along on the opening evening. And thankfully, her excitement is strong enough that not even her friend canceling their plans last minute dampens her mood.

Betty walks into the museum, pushing through the crowds that fill up the commision-free rooms, ones that she has already seen dozens of times. She locates the exhibition she is interested in fairly quickly; after all, it’s not the first time she has visited the museum, be it in her spare or work time. 

The guard by the entrances checks her ticket quickly and allows her to pass inside, into the much less noisy and crowded room, filled only with a handful of people talking discreetly in hushed voices, ones that are barely any louder than the subdued chatter from behind the door.

Betty opens up the small brochure she has picked up by the admission stand and browses through it to locate the first painting she sees in front of her. Her eyes keep jumping from the painting to the complementary text, searching eagerly for the tiny details provided by the pamphlet.

She delves into the examination so deeply, she doesn’t even notice soft steps approaching her or a person stopping right next to her, so close that she can almost feel their exhales tingling the back of her neck.

“Did you know that because Pollock often painted in a barn many flies and insects ended up getting stuck in the wet paint?” a low raspy voice next to her speaks up, sending a wave of shivers down Betty’s spine. 

Betty wants to lie and say that she didn’t recognise it the moment it reached her ears, but she can barely make herself think that, there’s no chance she would actually believe it. “Really?” she asks, her head cocking slightly to side as her eyes examine the painting more carefully. 

Every cell in her is screaming for her to turn around, to grasp him, to cuff him, but she stays still, rooted to the spot.

“Really,” he laughs before stretching out his arm to point at a part of the paining in front of them, the movement bringing him even closer to Betty. “Look over there.”

And Betty listens, squirming her eyes at the canvas and examining it carefully until she notices the tiny dead fly stuck to one of the paint drops. She allows herself to momentarily be astounded and fascinated by the little piece of trivia, she allows herself to get lost in the moment for just a few seconds, before the reality comes crashing down on her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks with a trembling voice. She doesn’t move from the spot, too afraid that her legs might betray her, too afraid that her emotions will be given away by her trembling hands.

“I came to admire Pollock’s work,” Jughead says and Betty can feel his shoulder lightly rubbing against hers as he shrugs. “May I interest you in another fact?” he asks casually.

Betty finds herself breathless for a few moments before accepting his offer with a small nod. Jughead places his palm at her lower back and motions towards the next painting, slowly guiding Betty towards it. 

She would be lying if she said that the place where their bodies met wasn’t on fire; she would be lying if she said that she wanted him to stop.

“One of the major reasons why Pollock got so famous and rich was CIA,” Jughead starts explaining slowly as they approach the next painting. “During 1950’s, throughout the Cold War, they sponsored his career in an attempt to draw attention to fundamental differences between social realism that prevailed in Russia and expressionism here in America. While the realism relied heavily on relatable, work-oriented, every-day scenes, expressionism conveys feelings of freedom and emotions. It was fundamentally American, in every sense of word - even Pollock himself was born on some farm in Wyoming and I mean, what’s more American than that?”

“So what, CIA just decided to sponsor his career because it fit their agenda? They used him as some sort of propaganda?” Betty asks, genuinely intrigued.

“Yeah. They basically went on to show that unlike in heavily restricted Russia, in America you were free to do whatever you wanted,” Jughead agrees.

“I did not know that,” Betty hums, cataloging all of the information carefully and making a mental note to herself to check it out later.

“And one would think they teach you about stuff like this in Academy,” Jughead says with a small chuckle. “After all, it’s not like this isn’t a public knowledge.”

“Well, we had a lot of history classes and even some art-focused, but they were more focused on scientific parts, like how to determine if something has been tampered with and things like that,” Betty shrugs.

“I’m not saying that’s a useless skill, because it’s not, but the Academy should do something about their curriculum,” Jughead says as they move onto the next painting.

A moment of silence follows, one that allows Betty to clean up her thoughts a bit and try to forget about the warm feeling of Jughead’s palm that’s still resting against her back. She takes a deep inhale before speaking.

“You know I should be cuffing you right now, do you?” she asks him quickly, before she has a chance to think it over.

“Then why aren’t you, _ agent _?” Jughead asks. He leans in with the last word, adding a teasing tilt to his voice and Betty can’t stop a wave of shivers from running down the back of her spine. “You might not have your gun on you, but I know for a fact that you rarely leave home without your badge. I’m pretty sure that just one flash of it would be enough to get any of these lovely security gentlemen to provide you with assistance.”

“I don’t need their assistance,” Betty mumbles.

“You’re right, you don’t,” Jughead says immediately, raising his hands in defensive motion. The action removes his palm from the small of Betty’s back and she can’t help herself but feel saddened by the loss of contact. “I didn’t mean to suggest you wouldn’t be capable of bringing somebody in,” Jughead adds slowly, “I’m just not sure if you would do that to me.”

“No? What makes you think that?” Betty asks, stopping abruptly and turning around to face him.

It is the second time she has a proper chance to look him over and she doesn’t waste it. From the black boots, through the equally dark leg-hugging jeans and a white shirt layered with a blue flannel and a jean jacket, she has to admit that the man knows how to dress. Her eyes tentatively scan his face, taking in his deep blue eyes, sinfully looking lips and three small moles on his cheek. The unruly black hair is sticking out from underneath the beanie on his head and for a second, Betty lets herself wonder how it would feel to run her fingers through them.

“For starters, the fact that you have just checked me out, and let me tell you, agent, you weren’t subtle at all,” Jughead answers with a teasing laugh and Betty’s cheeks immediately fire up. “Have I made you blush?” he teases once again.

Betty quickly averts her gaze, choosing to focus on the nearest painting instead of the man next to her. She clears her throat before speaking, hoping her voice won’t waver and give Jughead any more reasons to tease her. “And the other?”

“And the other is the fact that you hadn’t done it the last time,” he shrugs. “Did you know Pollock was a heavy drinker and even though he went through a rehab, he returned back to alcohol few years later?” Jughead asks, changing the topic abruptly.

“I actually did know that,” Betty says. She sneaks a sideway glance at Jughead, who has a proud smile plastered on his face.

They walk over to the next painting in silence, but somehow, it doesn’t feel heavy.

“Can I ask you something?” Betty asks slowly.

“Always,” Jughead answers in a heartbeat, angling his body towards Betty’s. She copies the motion without a second thought. 

“Is this a…” Betty starts, but pauses, trying to figure out the best way to phrase her question as delicately as possible. “... A work-related visit?” she settles on asking and quirks her eyebrow at Jughead knowingly. 

“Or you know what, I changed my mind, I don’t want to know,” Betty says quickly before Jughead can answer, shaking her head. She really doesn’t want to explore the possibility of this being a work-related visit and the position that would put her in.

He stares at her for a second questioningly, before the realisation dawns upon him. “Oh! No, it’s not, don’t worry! Even I’m not good enough to replicate these masterpieces,” Jughead answers with a small chuckle and a rock falls off Betty’s heart. 

Jughead probably notices the relief, because he gently places his hand against her arm, just as the sleeve of her shirt ends. His little finger barely brazes against Betty’s skin, but even the small contact is enough to send sparks flying down her skin. 

“No, this is more of a -” Jughead pauses and a small hum leaves his lips, “- a date.”

“Wh- what?” Betty asks and mentally curses herself for stumbling. _ What’s wrong with her? Why does she lose her ability to think straight because of one small word? _

Jughead chuckles lowly and leans towards her, erasing almost all of the distance between his lips and Betty’s ear. She is suddenly embraced in the smell of sandalwood and paint and even though she has never known it about herself before, she realises it’s her favourite favourite combination. “No need to worry, I am joking,” Jughead whispers. “And as you surely know, MoMA has updated their security system. It’s going to take few more months before I find a way into this one,” Jughead whispers, but Betty barely makes out his words, too distracted with how his warm breath tingles her skin.

It’s only once he leans away that she realises what he has said. “You do know that you can’t tell me stuff like that, right?” Betty frowns at him.

“Relax, I’m not planning on robbing this place again,” Jughead rolls his eyes and Betty relaxes a bit. “At least not yet,” he adds, but erupts into a laugh when Betty sends a death glare his way.

“If you keep making jokes like that, I’m going to change my mind about not arresting you,” Betty says as seriously as she can. And it seems to be enough, as Jughead stops laughing and offers her an apologetic glance.

“Alright, alright. No more work talk, I get it. Can I interest you in another piece of Pollock trivia?” he asks with a genuine a smile. His hand is outstretched and waiting for Betty to accept his invitation, but she finds herself frozen to spot.

_ What is she doing? _ The man in front of her is a criminal, one that she has been tracking for over a year. One that has stolen art-pieces worth millions and produced illegal forgeries after illegal forgeries. One that has been getting on her nerves, with his clever plans, with his loopholes and evasion of justice. 

But one whose laugh is probably the most beautiful sound she has ever heard and whose eyes are full of kindness and passion. One who is talented and knowledgeable, one who is caring and devoted. One who understands her like nobody else quite does, one who, for some reason, she finds it so easy to open up to.

And so, she doesn’t think more and slips her palm into his and lets her heart take over for once, not thinking of consequences that her actions might have. 

** _+1_ **

In Betty’s defense, she doesn’t realise what she has done until it is too late to change anything.

It all starts with the small phone (one that sometimes felt as if it weighted tons) ringing and a small crown emoji displayed in the middle of her screen instead of the caller’s name. She stares at it for a few seconds, trying to figure out if the small picture is attempting to mock her or not, if the things she’ll find at the end of the line will terrify her to a bone or make her stomach flutter.

She picks up nonetheless of the answer.

Jughead’s voice is cheery, a bit too much for the early Sunday hour in her opinion, but she says nothing of sorts and instead she just nods and hums in the correct places, her mind unable to completely focus as she hasn’t even had a chance to make herself a morning cup of tea.

She is just about to pour out the boiling water from the kettle into her favourite mug, when the question reaches her ears. 

“I know this is probably very inappropriate and beyond stupid of me, but I wanted to ask you out. On a date?”

Betty almost drops the kettle.

She takes a deep breath before answering and once she forces the question to leave her mouth, she still isn’t quite certain if the sound really came out, finding herself unable to hear it through the ringing in her ears. “What?” 

“Oh, fuck, I messed up, right?” Jughead rambles, but Betty can’t focus.

Her whole world is spinning, her head is threatening to burst and her heart is about to jump out through her throat. This feels like both her worst nightmare and her deepest desire coming true - _ what is she supposed to do? _

There’s no denying the feelings that have taken permanent residence in her heart over the course of the last few months. Ever since the first case involving Jughead Jones, there was something intriguing about the criminal, something that kept pulling her in, something that piqued her interest in ways no other case managed to do before. At first, she thought those feelings would disappear, but no such thing happened - actually, they only grew stronger with every new clue about the man she had uncovered. And then, when he left her the phone and she went against all of her morals and good judgement and gave into the temptation and dialed his number… Well, to say that things had spiraled from there would be understatement.

Betty couldn’t remember the last time she has felt like this about anybody - probably because it has never happened before.

Never before has she met a man who’d cause her entire world to turn upside down, who’d shake her to her core and make her rethink everything she believed in. Deep down, she feels that Jughead Jones is a good man; she knows it.

But that doesn’t change anything about the fact that he is a criminal and agreeing to go on a date with him, really _ agreeing _ , not just humming along as a part of negotiation method, would be just plain _ wrong. _ She is a federal agent, for god’s sake, she shouldn’t even be considering the idea! ‘ _ No’ _ should have left her lips immediately as he placed the question.

And yet -

“Yes.”

And just like that, it’s done. 

Betty knows for certain that the decision will come back to bite her in the ass and it’s going to sting. Badly. Worse than she can probably imagine.

Because even though she’s pretty sure that she hasn’t permitted that small word to slip out of her mouth, she’s in fact pretty sure that she has forbidden it from doing so, it has happened nonetheless and there’s nothing that she can do to change it.

Not when it’s already been hours since they said goodbye to each other, not when she’s already spent days nervously overthinking every aspect of her decision and considering how wrong things can go (the answer is _ detrimentally wrong_, if anybody would like to know). 

And certainly not when she’s anxiously smoothing over the silky fabric of her skirt and adjusting her skirt as she gets out of the cab in front of a cozily looking restaurant Jughead has picked.

Taking deep breaths isn’t helping, squeezing her eyes shut so tightly that her eyelids start to sting isn’t helping either. She desperately wants to do something to stop the panic from raising in her body, but her mind is blanking on coping mechanisms - she can’t remember a single one they’ve been taught them in the Academy.

This was a bad idea - probably even topping that one time when she got crazy drunk with her high school classmates on a monday morning thinking nobody would notice (oh, but the teachers did notice and so did their parents when they were eventually called to school). She can’t be here, _ no _, she has to get out here.

Betty turns on the back of her heel to walk away from the invitingly looking restaurant and as the cold wind blows onto her face, she can feel blood running up into her cheeks immediately and her whole body yearning for the warmth and comfort that the place would provide. 

She wants to turn back - but she doesn’t. Instead, she takes a step forward.

Her whole body is trembling and Betty is afraid that is she moves again her knees might give up and she’ll come tumbling down on the dirty sidewalk. And maybe that would be for the best - she clearly can’t make herself walk away or walk inside. Maybe to stand still, rooted to the spot would be her best option.

But she can’t do that; so she tentatively takes another step further from the restaurant.

A wave of guilt washes over her - is she really going to stand him up? Is she really going to not show up without an explanation? She’d hate if somebody did it to her, so how is she supposed to find the strength and power to do such a monstrous thing to somebody else?

She retracks her step back without turning around.

She could call him and tell him that something urgent came up - he’d definitely understand, right? But that isn’t the question she needs to be asking. No, would she be able to do it? In her current state, on a brink of a panic attack and crumbling down to the ground, could she pick up the phone and lie her way out of the date or would her voice crack and give away the real reason why she can’t meet him?

She’s rooted to the spot, her entire body torn into two halves, brain and heart lost in the struggle for power. 

She can’t breathe, she can’t move, she can’t think-

“- Miss? Are you alright?” 

It takes Betty a second to make out the words and then another for her to realise they’re aimed at her. She slowly turns her head around and is met with a kindly smiling hostess who has peaked her head out of the restaurant’s door.

“I just - you’ve been standing there for quite a while and you seemed a bit distraught…” her voice trails off. “Would you like some water?”

Betty almost declines her offer but once she realises how parched her mouth feels, she finds herself nodding along, suddenly unsure of her ability to form words.

“Come in, you must be freezing,” the hostess invites her.

_ Is she? _ Betty stops to think for a second; the silky fabric of her shirt drags against her skin full of goosebumps and her face is burning up from all of the blood that has run to her cheeks. _ But is it caused by the biting cold air or by the anxiety stealing all of her warmth and comfort? _

_ Does it really matter? _ she thinks as she crosses the restaurants’ threshold and lets the warm air embrace her.

“Here you go,” she hears the hostess say as she passes her a glass half-full of water.

Betty chugs it in one go before turning to the girl with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” the hostess smiles at her.

Betty considers the option of leaving once again, but as her eyes are met with a kind brown pair of a girl who went out of her way to help another distressed woman and to make sure she’s okay, she quickly discards those thoughts. _ This is a sign, a sign that you should stay. _

“I actually should have a reservation here?” Betty asks tentatively and to her surprise, her voice sounds relatively normal.

The hostess’s eyes drop to the computer screen in front of her. “Miss Cooper?” 

_ Of course he made the reservation in her name. _ “That’s me, yes,” Betty nods.

The girl smiles. “Let me take you to your table, then.”

Betty follows her through the restaurant to its very end, where sits a small booth, one that is just perfectly big enough to accomodate a pair of people and keep them close while still at a distance.

There’s a single candle placed in the middle of the table with a flickering flame, one that reminds Betty of the one that burns in her chest now; dancing around frantically, threatened by too many factors and fears, but burning nonetheless. Not giving up.

“First date nerves?” the hostess asks as she passes Betty a menu.

A small chuckle escapes Betty’s lips - is she that easy to read? “Yeah,” she admits.

“Well, I’m sure it’ll all turn out to be perfect,” the girl says before giving her a last warm smile and leaving her all alone.

The beginnings of a panic attack that she has felt outside have settled down for now and Betty just prays that it will stay that way. Because she is doing this - there’s really no turning back now.

She flips through the menu a couple of times as she waits for Jughead to show up, but when the waiter comes by her table a few minutes later, she tells him with a small smile that she will wait for her company to arrive before ordering. The waiter just nods politely and disappears into the restaurant.

Betty guesses that it comes with the years of practise from the FBI that she can sense when something is wrong. She doesn’t know exactly how - if it is the sour taste that settles in her mouth, or if it is the way her stomach starts rumbling, tying into knots and untying right back, or if it perhaps has something to do with the tingling feeling on the back of her neck. All in all, with every passing minute, the restlessness in her grows only stronger and the weird feelings get harder to ignore.

Jughead is already fifteen minutes late when waiter comes back again, asking if she really doesn’t want to go ahead and order something while she waits. She shakes her head again, but as he turns to leave, she ends up asking for a glass of water. 

Her throat has started drying out once again.

She doesn’t know what to do with her hands to stop them from shaking, so she tugs them underneath her thighs. The booth’s bench is covered in leather and her sweaty palms stick to it like glue, but anything’s better than the jittering shakiness.

The next time the waiter stops by her table is twenty minutes later. He offers Betty the softest smile, but his eyes scream pity. He leaves behind a small basket of bread.

Betty tries to reach for a piece, but her hands are stuck to the cushion.

_ Or have they just gone numb? _

She watches the flickering fire of the candle slowly die out until there’s no more of the warm orange flame dancing around in the air, just a single stream of grey smoke floating up and away, dispersing into the air seamlessly.

She supposes it’s a metaphor for the flame of hope she allowed herself to light up.

She leaves a crumpled twenty dollar bill on the table for the inconvenience she has caused and the bread she hadn’t even touched, before leaving the restaurant.

Looks of pity follow her all the way outside until she disappears onto the backseat of a cab that smells like vomit.

But she doesn’t turn back.

**Author's Note:**

> for reference: [The House with Cracked Walls by Paul Cézzane](https://images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages/ep/original/DT1943.jpg)
> 
> please don't murder me for the ending? i love you all and can't wait to hear from you in the comments or alternatively, on my tumblr [catthecoder](www.catthecoder.tumblr.com) 💕 love y'all
> 
>   
_ next instalment: coming hopefully soon, but no title-teaser since i can't seem to figure out the best way to phrase it _
> 
> p.s.: if you look closely, you'll realise that the title was my attempt at being funny (and also the biggest foreshadowing), since jughead not only doesn't joke about the date, but also doesn't go.


End file.
